DAUNTLESS
by Charmichan
Summary: Alistair Cornwell enlisted shortly after America announced its entry in the raging European conflict. This story is his journey on becoming a soldier, the realization of his dream- earning wings in France - and everything in between.
1. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER 1**

_"Anyone who looks with anguish on evil so great must acknowledge the tragedy of it all;_

_ and if anyone experiences them without anguish, his condition is even more tragic, _

_since he remains serene by losing his humanity."_

- _Augustine of Hippo_

A GUST OF BITING WIND CUT THROUGH the sleepy platform as his group waited to board the train bound for Washington. Satisfied that he accounted for all the names of his party, the middle aged officer handed the conductor the herd's train tickets. His shivering flock was then sheparded inside the wooden train car; taking their seats with either mumbles of contempt or numb silence from being exposed to the bending Chicago airstream for what seemed like hours.

Alistair Cornwell was warm and keyed up despite the freezing weather. He bid his dear friend Candy goodbye earlier that day. She would begin her new life in New York as he would live his in Europe. He had turned eighteen a few days after the headlines hit the newspaper stands, "War Proclaimed by Wilson, Austria breaks with US". No longer a minor, his first adult decisions consisted of joining the Aviation Corps[1], and then consequently face his family's wrath after.

However, his dream to be a pilot was initially shot down as he was rejected by the Army recruit station near his university. Due to his poor eyesight, he miserably failed to qualify for the physical. There was also the option of volunteer ambulance driver for the Red Cross; but he wouldn't have it. He wanted to fly. Desperate but unwavering, he tried again, this time in the less popular branch of the Navy. Armed with the confidence of his sharp memory and determination not to make the same mistake he did before; he quickly memorized the letters for the eye examination. Discreetly he peeked over the shoulders of the men before him and when it was his turn, he recited the letters like a burst of a well oiled machine gun - with very little intentional mistakes.

"Son," the wrinkled doctor pondered with fatherly concern, "I'm sure your glasses can correct the deficiency in your vision. But would you be able to see through the fog on your lens or fire straight when the weather is foul?"

The man next in line sneered in agreement with the thoughtful physician. Stear could only imagine what's going behind the spectacle-free head of his, but his own lightbulb blinked and a big grin spread across his smooth face. Alas! The circumstance volunteered itself for an audience. He fumbled on his bulging pocket where he kept his latest contraption.

"I've got it all covered doctor! Behold!" With beaming pride he presented a thicker-than-usual aviator frame, strapped the snug fitting item on his face, and winded up the little ratchet lever on the side. With a reverent voice he declared, "I call it- _Flash Wipers_".

The doctor and the surrounding men in line guffawed in unison as they set eyes on the thin mechanical arms conducting wiping movements across the glasses. The rolling laughter even doubled as he faced them, his big blue eyes blinking as it was magnified by the prescription frame. He couldn't understand cause of the ruckus; his invention didn't break down like it usually did.

It took a stinging self slap on the thigh before the doctor could get a hold of himself. He wiped the tears welling on his eyes and clapped Stear on the shoulder. Gone was his fatherly concern, he now leaned over like an amused friend, coughing out his jovial verdict: "Sonny, you're alright, but I'd keep that thing off sight if I were you. Good luck at boot camp."

Naiveté aside, he was deliriously happy. Mission was accomplished even at the expense of being ridiculed. And just like that, after his teeth were counted, his orifices checked and his body weighed and measured; he was declared "physically fit". He will later be a member of the First Marine Aviation Force[2].

THE RIDE TO THE CAPITAL marked the last comforts of civilization for their delegation. The official meal ticket bought them a delicious meal at the dining car as well as service from porters, a shocking comparison to the following accommodation. The train that would take them to South Carolina was simple and almost decrepit. Cold air rudely entered through the creaks of the wooden compartments and warm air from the potbelly stove escaped through them. The seats were of hard wood which made their bottoms ache after prolonged sitting. As the numbers of volunteers from the east coast riding the same train swelled by the hundreds; there was hardly any space for them to stretch much less sleep into. They were packed like sardines, flavored with smoke coming from the coal fueled heaters. However the hardship of the travel, the men didn't seem to mind. They were in high spirits as if school boys heading for a field trip instead of war.

As nature insisted on its balance, the pack sifted for its hierarchy. Through the dim kerosene light, the men- mostly his age- measured each other by wit, built or poise. Being the only one with specs, he stuck out like a sore thumb. He would be asked more frequently than the others as to where he was from and sometimes which school he attended. He would answer them humbly and with little pride. College boys among the group were very few and they quickly established their clique around Stear's side of the car. They discussed books, war and automobiles, while other groups down the aisle provided them with cheerful singing as well as streams of original and imaginative obscenities.

In the morning, the troop train reached its destination. The recruits were welcomed by a first sergeant with a curt remark on the tough training they were about to face as well as his high regard for their courage to serve their country. They were then picked up by a convoy of motor trucks and were deposited to Parris Island - the designated Marine Recruit Depot for enlisted men[3]. Inside the compound grounds, they were grouped into platoons and were greeted with knowing grins by uniformed crew cut recruits marching down the street. Unprompted, they all bawled in one jeering voice, "You'll be sorreee!"

Stear smiled back, unsuspecting the foretelling truth of the odd greeting. Soon after they fell into ranks, a big and immaculately dressed officer stood in front of them. He delivered the classic Marine welcoming address.

"I am Gunnery Sergeant Hercules, your senior drill instructor. From this moment on, you will not speak unless spoken to. The first and last words from you maggots will be "Sir". Do you possums understand that?"

"Sir, yes sir!" The recruits answered in unison.

"Bullshit! Sound off like you have a pair!"[4]

"Sir, yes sir!" They answered even louder.

So there it began. Six weeks was what it took for them to cast off their civilian ways and adjust to the military way of life. They would not stir, they would not wander, they would not wear purple socks and they would not have any privileges. Their fates in the island would be under the beck and call of their bellowing drill instructor. Their bodies would be hard from day in day out cadences and calisthenics. Their ears would be sharp, keen for commands of their DI. They would shave everyday irregardless of absent facial hair. Their appearance would be well kept as well as their gear. They would learn to fire rifles the Marine way. They would learn to talk the Marine way. They would learn not refer to their Springfield M1903 rifles as 'guns' or else risk muscle failure. They would learn how to kill efficiently and how to defend themselves in hand to hand combat. They will learn to operate their weapons under extreme physical and mental stress. They will be conditioned for lack of sleep, obedience and hard discipline. They would learn that punishment would come quick and unflinching. They would learn these skills that would make the difference between success and failure in combat - and in some cases; the hairline difference between life and death.

After six weeks of basic training and endless marching, their transformation would be complete. They would be taken apart and put together again. They would possess the temper and the mindset of the Old Breed. They were to be Marines.

Along those six weeks, some of the recruits failed to overcome the rough and intense training. Stear himself almost did. His morale and concentration plummeted when he received his first letters from his parents and his Great Aunt Elroy. They expressed their disappointment and worry, but most of all, they believed they were cheated and lied to. He was supposed to be in college, living in comfort and safety, on his way to earning his degree to help continue the family dynasty. He was told that his decision to join the military in secret was unbecoming of his upbringing and a shocking betrayal to his family's trust. His guilt bothered him more than he thought it would. It kept him awake at night, even when his body was exhausted from the daily harassment conjured by Sgt. Hercules. He wrote them back immediately when he had the chance, desperately explaining his reasons and sharing a little of his new life as a 'boot'.

Eventually he got his family's blessing but it was his Great Aunt Elroy's words that somehow lifted the cloud. Her words which carried the most weight in the family (except for the mysterious Great Uncle William) wrote:

_My dearest nephew Alistair,_

_ What is done cannot be undone. You have made your decision and all that we can do now is support your success. I cannot blame you for your idealism; my oldest brother, your Uncle Wallace, as you already know, also served under General Grant during the Civil War. He sent us letters saying how proud he was, having been given the privilege to be a part of the war against slavery and Southern Nationalism. I see a lot of him in you. _

_ I have included with this letter a package containing your late Uncle Wallace's most valuable possession: a gold necklace with his brotherhood's emblem. He was convinced it helped dodge a cannon or two, but it was useless when consumption overwhelmed him. If he were alive, I reckon he would have liked you to have it._

_ If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask me or your parents. We are here for you no matter what you do, no matter where you go._

_May God keep you._

_ Aunt Elroy_

_**A/N If you'd like to read more of this story, please leave a review. Thanks!**_

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[1]The Aviation Corps, listed as aeroplane service, has supplanted the cavalry of the old days, as the eyes and ears of the army. Its importance in this service has been but recently demonstrated, and so greatly has this importance been valued that all nations have contracted for thousands upon thousands of these birds of the air. The Aviation Corps is part of the regular Army Signal Corps. – The Army and The Navy of the United States of America (Booklet) 1917

[2] The First Marine Aviation Force was first organized in Miami on June 16, 1918. Four land-based air squadrons were set up and provisionally named A, B, C and D. But later, they were named 7, 8, 9 and 10. Once in France, the 7th and 8th Marine Aviation Squadrons were located in the village of Oye and the 9th and 10th Marine Air Squadrons were located at La Fresne. The 1st and 2nd Squadrons were located in St. Inglevert. The 3rd and 4th Squadrons were located in Campagne. – United States Marine Aviation

[3] An enlisted rank (also known as enlisted grade or enlisted rate) is, in most militaries, any rank below that of a commissioned officer or warrant officer. The term can also be inclusive of non-commissioned officers. In most cases, enlisted service personnel perform jobs specific to their own occupational specialty; as opposed to the more generalized command responsibilities of commissioned officers. – Wikipedia

[4] Quote from Full Metal Jacket. Line by Gunnery Sergeant Hartman.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N _Thank you so much to Brower Alhely, KeilaNot2, Karen Ucsg, Luzpaat, Liliana, Forever and MsPuddleglum for your encouraging reviews and ratings; and to the very talented GosieKin to whom my affection and gratitude runs deep._**

CHAPTER 2

FOR SOME OF THE MEN IN HIS PLATOON their time on Parris Island was pure chaos and sheer madness. On short leave, they would escape the strict environment of the corps and find relaxation outside the nearby towns. Stear on the other hand, having been raised to respect authority and to strive for excellence, thrived. He scored perfect on obedience and perfect on loyalty; his daily swimming at the mansion paid off by strengthening his endurance. As a result of his family's regular hunting trips, despite his poor eyesight, he scored one point shy of expert rifleman. While most of the Southern boys could shoot, he was proud to be one of the few Yankee City boys that could fire a weapon and fire it well. On longer liberty breaks, some of the men on his platoon took off on excursions chasing girls. Stear would stay behind; satisfied with the small comforts of home his parents and great aunt continually sent him. He would then generously share the contents of his packages with his platoon- securing him the endearing nickname: Candyman.

Candyman always received the most correspondence and packages during mail call, which easily got Sgt. Hercules's eagle eye attention. Sure enough, the tough drill instructor, keen on equality, resolved the situation by making Candyman run an extra lap on reveille the day after. Dutifully, he began running up the boondocks solo as ordered. Five trips up and down the hill beforehand began to take its toll; he struggled as he ran, staggering on each step. Halfway up the tracks, his legs gave way, triggering his stumble down the rocky dirt path. Out of nowhere from the breaking dawn, a strong muscular arm reached out to him. It was Scottie, his group leader, and behind him followed the ground thumping boots of the entire platoon. His heart swelled with joy.

Above anything else, perhaps the most unforgettable lesson that bootcamp thought him and his comrades was the corps's ethos - "_Semper Fidelis_"- always faithful.

ON GRADUATION DAY an important looking General took the stage and addressed their batch. "Men, you have successfully completed your recruit training and are now United States Marines. Take your Marine Corps emblems and wear them with pride. You will be members of the elite fighting outfit the US will send overseas. On your shoulders lay the future of our country's history and its role in the world, so be worthy of it. Good luck!"

The men took two of the black painted brass insignia out of their pockets and pinned them on the lapels of their green service uniforms. The eagle, the globe and the anchor solemnized their commitment to defend their country in land, air and sea.

Upon their final reveille at Parris Island, they were told to report to designated trucks as their names were called. On what criteria the military chose their destinies he did not know, but having confidence that the higher echelons knew what they were doing, he was more than pleased by the result. "Cornwell, Alistair A., 176038, turn in your rifle, cartridge belt and bayonet, aviation mechanic, Gerstner Field.[1]"

"So long, Candyman, show them Annapolis boys what you're made of."

"Thanks Scottie, good luck my friend." They shook hands, leaving Stear feeling a little choked while saying goodbye to his newfound brothers. At the last moment, the nagging thought which lolled dormant for weeks had been roused; the known fact that some of them may never come back… and forever rest in foreign ground.

Scottie, son of second generation Scottish immigrants from New York, and the bulk of the unit were assigned for duty as infantry. Later on in France, they would be grouped to join the First Marine Division who were to be dubbed as the legendary: "Devil Dogs"[2].

AFTER COMPLETING MONTHS OF TRAINING COURSES for mechanics and pilots at the spacious hangars and sandy runways of Gerstner Field, Stear's squadron was transferred to the newly established Marine Flying field in Miami, Florida. The accelerated training program earned him promotion after promotion. Replacing the gold on scarlet crossed rifle insignia for Private First Class; his winter field uniform of brown and green bore a single, to double red chevron on gold, indicating his rank. He is now Corporal Alistair A. Cornwell; sharpshooter, master of several aero-engines, the Morse code, photography, aero dynamics, rigging of various airplanes, the Lewis gun, the Vickers gun, bombs and the lethal genius of the Constantinescu gear[3]. It was heaven on earth for his mechanical brain!

Having seen several casualties and two deaths, he was relieved that he wasn't one of the green cadets from Annapolis who practiced with the dreaded Camels[4] for combat flight training. Like many other modern inventions, his beloved aeroplane was transformed from a flying vehicle of observation to a deadly weapon of war. Bombs were dropped by hand from its cockpits and both sides were in a race in developing innovations for the latest bombing techniques. The battle for air supremacy also gave way to dogfights, another reason why he was content with his duty as a lowly mechanic. Or so he forced to convince himself … deep inside, he couldn't help but admire the brave men who flew.

The proximity of the base made it easier for him to travel to Chicago; however, his family insisted on visiting him instead. On his 36 hour furlow, Archibald - his younger brother, his parents and his Aunt Elroy were scheduled to pick him up from Pensacola Base. He made sure that he looked his sharpest on his full dress blue uniform. The long sleeved midnight blue jacket bore his division's campaign ribbons on his left chest. His Sharpshooter Marksmanship badge was also sewn on his sleeve below his rank. His light blue slacks were immaculately starched and without a crease. His belt buckle and shoes were shined to blind. Spic and span and ready to go, he smoothed what's left of his short hair, put on his barracks cover and finished with his white gloves.

The salty smell of the ocean permeated the air as he walked the freshly paved sidewalk towards the visitors lounge. The atmosphere on Pensacola Navy Yard was more at ease than the constant rush and bellowing commands of Parris Island. He liked the Napoleonic period feel of the old Spanish fortress and the colonial buildings built around the Barrancas water battery overlooking the bay. Although in ruins, he preferred it to the freshly painted green and white hangars of Gerstner Field and the cold wooden huts of Parris Island. The view of the channel and its emerald green waters were calming, and the food was good!

"For the love of vogue! What did they do to your hair?" Archibald blurted out as he hopped off the shiny Rolls Royce Silver Ghost.

"Hi Arch! Your choice of car is a quiet unpatriotic, don't you think?"

"England is our ally; I see no dilemma in that. How are you old bear?"

As the Cornwell brothers hugged, their mother gripped their father's arm. "Look Papa, look at how our son has grown!" She held back her tears as she admired how brawny and masculine her first born looked in his uniform.

The old Cornwell was very pleased. It has been three years since he last saw his eldest. The company's oil mining business in the Middle East and the outbreak of war had made it impossible for him and his wife to see their boys. For what seemed like only yesterday, the dark haired teenager was a towering stick of skin and bones.

"Alistair, come here son." He greeted the man before him with a firm handshake and a quiet overwhelming look of approval.

"Dad," Stear broke the heavy silence. "I'm sorry for not asking your permission."

"Oh hush! A man does not apologize for his choices; he just makes up for it. "

It was the first time he was ever addressed by his father as a man, relieved and proud - Stear beamed.

"Stop hogging people. Make way for the ladies!" Archie stepped in. Emerging from another parked black luxury car was the family matriarch and the blushing Patricia O'Brien.

"I'm beginning to understand how zoo animals feel under public display. Get in the motorcar young man, or we'll soon attract a crowd so big, the Traveling Circus Troupe will be put out of business!"

Head full of protocol, the aggravated matriarch urged for a more private place to continue the family reunion. Profoundly taken by surprise, Alistair couldn't agree better.

**_If you want to read more of this story, please leave a review. Thank you!_**

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[1] Located at Lake Charles, Louisiana, Gerstner Field was an army flight training facility where the First Aviation Squadron was transferred for advanced training. – Chronology of the United States Marine Corps in the World War

[2]According to the United States Marine Corps legend, the moniker was used by German soldiers to describe US Marines who fought in the Battle Of Belleau Wood in 1918. The Marines fought with such ferocity that they were likened to "Dogs from Hell". - Wikipedia

[3] Developed by Romanian inventor George Constantinescu, the Constantinescu synchronization gear (or CC gear), used impulses transmitted by a column of liquid to enable the gun trigger. This made possible the use of firing a machine gun, targeting opponents without harming the blade of the aircraft. Wikipedia

[4] The Sopwith Camel was a British WW1 single-seat biplane fighter introduced in the Western Front in 1917. Manufactured by Sopwith Aviation Company, it had a short-coupled fuselage, heavy powerful rotary engine, and concentrated fire from twin synchronized machine guns. - Wikipedia


	3. Chapter 3

**_A/N Thank you so much to Lorena, Minda, Paolao2, Lezti Bella and Enaka for your gracious reviews! Special thanks to Liliana, Brower Alhely, MissPuddleglum, Forever and Karen Uscg for staying with me. To GosieKin, thank you so much for your generosity with your time and insights. _**

CHAPTER 3

IT WAS A GLORIOUSLY BEAUTIFUL DAY. The panorama changed from swaying palm trees in the gulf breeze to majestic live oaks lining up the avenues of the affluent Mobile, Alabama neighborhood of Spring Hill. An hour drive from Pensacola, Florida, the new Spring Hill Hotel was the family's choice of accommodation. Stately summer houses of the wealthy Mobilians spread along the elevated locale leading to the Italianate Villa. The family rented the stunning two bedroom balcony suite overlooking the lush gardens with unobstructed view of downtown business district skyline. Two connecting rooms were prepared for the Cornwells; one shared by the brothers. It was only after lunch that Stear finally had Patricia all to himself.

"You were quiet all the way here. I hope we didn't tire you too much." he said as they walked around the hotel grounds.

"Not at all, I enjoy being with your family, but I can't help feeling like I'm intruding." Patricia smiled weakly. "It was Archie's idea that I should come, and your aunt sent a letter to my grandmamma, so..."

"I'm glad you did." He reassured her, reminding himself to thank his younger brother and his favorite aunt later.

"So, how is everyone?"

"I assume by 'everyone', you mean Candy and Albert? Perhaps you've heard from Archie, Terry left Candy for the actress Susanna Marlowe. She was devastated and came back sick, poor girl." She replied as a matter-of-factly leaving out the state of emotional turmoil she herself had been into since his sudden disappearance.

"Yes, I have heard. Such a waste. Maybe it is all for the best. And what of Albert? Did he get his memory back?" he pressed on.

"No, I'm afraid not; but it's amazing how well he could take care of Candy, despite being sick himself."

He bit his tongue so as not to say out loud his thoughts about the mysterious man. Behind the obvious brotherly affection, he had secretly envied his closeness to his blonde friend who used to dominate his fantasies. He quickly shook off the irksome thought, it was the past, and he is with Patty now.

"What is it like Stear?" she s asked. "What is it like joining the military?"

His gaze went up to the Spanish moss dangling gracefully from the line of southern oaks. Looking back, he counted himself lucky for surviving the harsh ordeal of bootcamp; there wasn't much time to develop lasting friendship in the island, but the fond memories of his platoon will forever stay with him. "It was very disorienting for the first week;" he said sighing, "we were stripped off any privacy and were not free to come and go as we please. It felt like I made a huge mistake, but once you get used to being screamed at, the intimidation gradually fades." he stopped walking and took her hand. "Patty, I should have told you personally, instead, I sent you that stupid short letter."

"I was happy you have thought about me at all." She replied and pulled her hand away, hoping he didn't notice that she was shaking. "You didn't tell me though. Why? Why did you enlist?"

His eyebrows shot up at the tone of her voice, which sounded more like an accusation than an innocent inquiry, he garbled a reply.

"Patty, must we be like this? Now of all times?"

"Yes, Alistair Cornwell. Now would be a good time for you to explain yourself. You do realize what business you are getting yourself into, do you? A young man of your status and education; tinkering away at the command of others; you are too good for that."

Her words disturbed him. He was proud of his duty and what he has accomplished so far; and was disgusted by the thought that only the uneducated should be at the bottom and the ruling class always at top.

"I never took you for being one of those aristocratic snobs Patricia." he retorted.

"No, you misunderstood." she said toning her voice down. "I'm worried about you. There's so many ways in ending that war, not by force, not by bloodbath. For goodness sake, the whole fad is a crime against life!"

"Patty, as long as there are tyrants who start a war, there shall always be an army to stand against them and defend their freedom and way of life. Many have no means of escaping the conquering powers; somebody is bound to face them and fight before they get close to their homes and blow their loved ones to kingdom come."

"But it is not your war until you chose it to be. You haven't been selected for service; and for those who were, there were some who stood their grounds and refused! Why can't you be like that Stear?"

"Because I am not a lily-livered Pacifist who believes they can talk themselves out of everything!" he mocked. "How can a girl, raised in privilege like you, possibly understand?"

His words pained her deeply; without notice, hot tears fell on her cheeks. Unable to speak, she turned away and ran. To think that his carefully planned liberty came to this, he groaned angrily to himself and yelled. "What am I doing?!"

LATER THAT EVENING, their party was invited to a dinner show organized by the hotel management for servicemen and families in the area. The event hall was packed with the Mobile elite. Jewelry and Officers seemed to be the theme of the night as the crowd of waltzing couples flaunted their caste. It all seemed dreamlike, almost silly, compared to the simple and uncomfortable existence he had known in the past months. For a moment, he felt like he missed the environment of the other world, or more accurately, his 'real world' and wondered if the other servicemen in the room felt the same.

He studied his family as they sipped champagne and ate southern hors d'oeuvers of shrimp and dip while enjoying music from a live orchestra. It gave him an awkward feeling of re-adjustment. He didn't know what to make of Patty's presence either, so he counted his insensitivity to her as due to his lack of female interaction since he enlisted. Nevertheless, he was sorry for upsetting her.

Distracted by his plotting to gain Patty's forgiveness, Stear was caught unaware by an NCO[1] coming his way. Reacting as quickly as he could, he squinted his eyes as he counted the chevrons on the officer's sleeve. "Good evening…. (_sergeant, Gunnery Sergeant, 1st SERGEANT…)_ …Sergeant Major!" he darted in rigid attention and saluted smartly.

"Too late Merrine." The other smirked as he breezed past him.

Much to his surprise, the handsome Sgt. Major sashayed towards Patricia's direction. He saw her body stiffen when she realized that the swaggering man was closing in on her. His heartbeat quickened and he was suddenly anxious. Subtly, he maneuvered his way to the nearby bar, an earshot away and behind their table.

"Yo'ah gonna break mah heart if yew don't dance wit me Miss;" The ginger haired Southerner bowed and introduced himself. "Sgt. Major Twang, at yo'ah service."

"Dance? Oh!" Patricia blushed and replied in a polite voice. "You're too kind, but I can't dance sir."

"Shoah yew can! Ah'll teach yah." he insisted.

"Thank you for asking me, but, I twisted my ankle this afternoon, and I'm afraid it's still painful for me to move around." she replied nervously.

Clearly disappointed, the man retreated to his table and searched for new prospects. Stear saw her breathe a sigh of relief. He was curious about her ankle but he couldn't help himself from grinning. Shortly after Sgt. Major Twang left, another one tried his luck; this time a young dark haired Navy Lieutenant. Perhaps the first one was a bit too old for her taste, or maybe a junior officer would tempt her to change her mind, he winced at the thought. 'May I have the next dance?" was the common introduction for two more rivals, but none prevailed.

"Stear! Where in Alabama have you've been?!" Archie cried out. "I've been looking all over for you. Are you drunk? What are you smiling for?"

"Shhhh… quiet down buddy, look over there."

"Are you spying on O'Brien?! Unbelievable." His younger brother shook his head feigning revulsion. "She's been attracting a lot of dogs and here you are, enjoying the view! Tell me; just what is your major malfunction?"

"Did she have an accident this afternoon?" Stear asked dismissively.

"None that I know of, why?"

A wave of jittery high washed over him, his smile was all teeth. "She didn't dance with no one."

"Well, aren't you glad?" Archie scoffed. "She was waiting for _you_, idiot."

AFRAID TO SPEAK TO HER TOO SOON, he didn't dance nor talk to Patricia the whole evening. He was sure one word from her could discourage him beyond repair and cause unnecessary tension in his family, so he postponed his move for a better timing.

He didn't expect for everyone to be in bed early as he walked inside their suite. The foyer was quiet and the electric lamps were darkened, making the light from Patricia's open door more noticeable. Hesitantly, he knocked softly and whispered. "Patty?"

He peeped inside her room. Already in her nightgown, Patty lay comfortable on her bed reading a book under the covers.

"What do you want?" she answered, obviously still upset.

He entered her room; slightly closing the door behind him but leaving it ajar. "I wanted to apologize, I'm sorry for being such a prick."

"Apology accepted." she answered flatly and kept on reading.

His shoulders slumped and doubted his courage to go on. Her clipped English accent couldn't ring any colder than now. He thought to himself, "If only I have an instruction manual on female conversation." Awkward silence came between them as he stood beside her bed.

"Well?" She spat icily without lifting her gaze from the book. "Good night."

He sat down on the edge of her bed, catching her attention. "Explain it to me." He asked truthfully. "What you believe in, this pacifism."

"Do you really want to know?" she answered in a distrustful tone.

"I _really_ want to know."

Patty contemplated for a moment, and then closed her heavy book. She let out a long sigh and answered him in the gentlest voice. "I believe… that, for all they that take the sword perish with the sword[2] … and because I have already lost too many friends and family in that war; and I'm afraid I will lose you too."

Warm brown on cyan blue, they held each others gaze.

Her confession gave him reassurance and gratitude. For such affection like that, he knew he should be glad. Elated, he leaned over and embraced her.

"I'll be alright Patty, just you wait. This war will be over very soon, I can feel it."

She answered by wrapping her bare arms around his neck, as if she was hoping to press understanding to his skin.

He had never been this close to a person of the opposite sex before. His mother had been absent for so long, the word was just a noun to him. The warm affection felt foreign to him, and yet, he liked it! He liked it so much, it made him want more. He pressed his cheek on her soft hair and breathed in the flowery scent of her locks. His nose craved the radiating unique smell of her skin; his hands itched to touch the soft mounds of her breasts as they pressed on his chest. Quickly, he froze at the thought and pushed her back.

He popped right out of her bed and dashed towards the door.

"Stear, what's wrong?" she called after him.

"It's late Patty, I don't want to wake up the others. See you in the morning?"

"Yes indeed." she replied feebly. "See you in the morning."

**_Please leave a review if you'd like to read more of this story. Thanks!_**

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[1] The non-commissioned officer (NCO) corps is often referred to as 'the backbone' of the armed services, as they are primary and the most visible leaders for most military personnel. Additionally, they are the leaders primarily responsible for executing a military organization's mission and for training military personnel so they are prepared to execute their missions. NCO training and education typically includes leadership and management as well as service specific and combat training. - Wikipedia

[2] Matthew 26:52, King James Version


	4. Chapter 4

**_A/N Thank you so much for the constant support of my CC friends for cheering me on to write more. Thanks to Keila, Paolau2, Liliana, Lezti, Enaka, Puddle, Brower Alhely and GosieKin, for giving such encouraging feedback!_**

**_To Illyria, a review from someone out of my circle have made me jump over the top, you can't believe how happy I was when I read it. Thank you!_**

**_Dear Bequi, thank you for introducing me to Lady Jane, and for sharing your time and insights on this chapter._**

CHAPTER 4

"HE WHO WISHES TO FIGHT must count the cost." Stear read aloud the passage from Sun Tzu's, 'The Art of War'. Stripped down only to his skivvies, he stretched lazily on his bunk, resting the open book on his chest while anticipating the bugler's call for lights out on their bustling camp along the edge of the Everglades.

"All this waiting _should_ count for something. It's driving me nuts." He grumbled.

"You can say that again." replied Mikey 'Flats'; another specialist from Nebraska, and his bunkmate agreed. "It's been like what? Three weeks since they cancelled all our passes?"

"Yeah, can't they just get on and be done with it already?" Stear groaned.

"It's not like you're losing much sleep over it." Mikey stuck his head out and made kissing sounds with his pillow. "The minute you hit the sack, you've been moaning Patty… oh Patty…make me stay… Patteeeeeee…"

Stear laughed heartily and lobbed his pillow down to Mikey. "Aw… shove it, Flats. My moaning is music compared to your midnight farts."

The long wait for their deployment was spent in intervals of boredom, perfecting their trade at the machinist's practice shop, nomenclature, reading letters and observing Jennies[1] making enormous commotion as they hovered over the US Marine Aviation Field. When he wasn't busy with drafting or reading blueprints, Stear would let his mind wander thinking about Patricia and their short time together with his family in Mobile.

Once, he might have thought of her as a shy and a simple girl in Saint Paul; but seeing the unexpected side of her, added more mystery to her character. He craved to know more and she generously obliged. They would exchange letters frequently, even more often than he did with his family. However, their communication was abruptly put on hold when he was given his permanent assignment and shortly after, the orders to deploy for Europe.

THEY SAILED FOR OVERSEAS service on board the troopship De Kalb[2] at New York City on July 18, 1918. Their unit had broken off from the First Marine Aeronautic Company, whose mission first led active service of seaplane missions and anti-submarine patrols at Punta Delgada, Azores. Stear was assigned to Squadron C of the First Marine Aviation Force. With 107 officers and 654 enlisted, they were trained and organized to provide reconnaissance and artillery spotting for the marine brigade in France.[3]

The troops were issued summer cotton dungarees, but the sweltering heat from the belly of the ship offered no comfort despite the material of their new soft uniforms. It was then that he fully appreciated his father's recommendation to call on Capt. Brown, and request for a transfer to AnnapolisNavalAcademy. His old man pointed out, that life as an officer would be more beautiful. The officers' country, where no enlisted men were to set foot unless for working parties, -at that time- seemed like the best sour grapes the fox in him could ever desire.

The smell of moldy armpits, sweat and cigarette smoke below deck was sickening. And as the days zigzagging the Atlantic progressed, so did the intensity of the foul odor and the men's hidden resentment for officers who had bathing cubicles in their lofty quarters. Even dining at the mess hall made his stomach turn. The closed quarter reeked of steaming rations and body odor, which made him swallow each spoonful deep in concentration on anything else but his senses; otherwise, he would have vomited and lost face. If the regulations and the elements allowed it, he would have opted to eat and sleep on the top deck to escape the heat and putrid odors below.

It wasn't his first crossing unlike many of his comrades; but the ongoing threat of U-boats hunting Allied Ships in the open ocean as well as the numbers of their convoy, made the trip the most memorable one by far. Only a few months before, they read about the first American servicemen who were killed through their passage to Europe. A German submarine sunk the Tuscania -a British troopship- off the coast of Ireland. Because the ship was traveling in convoy, 91 percent of its passengers were rescued. Nevertheless, 166 Americans were drowned in the attack. Among the dead were about twenty seven men of the 158th Aero Squadron.[4] They had also trained at Gerstner Field which sent shivers down to Stear's spine.

FRANCE AT LAST! The Force disembarked at Brest on July 30, and found a full bag of administrative and supply problems. Foremost among them was the fact that no arrangements had been made to move them 400 miles to their base locations near Calais. This was solved and the two day trip was accomplished with the requisition of a French train by Maj. Cunningham. Squadrons A and B were located at he landing sites in Calais and Dunkirk, with Squadron occupying a field near the town La Fresne. The force headquarters were established in the town of Bois en Ardres.[5] A majority of machinists and carpenters were designated to Base B to form the assembly, repair and supply unit located in the vicinity of the wings. Stear, on the other hand would serve as a field mechanic for immediate ground support to his designated squadron.

DAY WING Northern Bombing Group Squadron C[6] was billeted in comfortable living quarters surrounding the aerodome of Field E. The low stone façade, roofed with worn out red tiles looked like an old school of some sort; stripped from unnecessary furniture and equipped with large fireplaces in each room for the winter and wide windows for ample ventilation during summer. They unpacked their seabags and exchanged greetings with their new comrades.

A few more guys from Gerstner Field were attached to their section. In addition to Flats, Stear became fast friends with Bertrand "Hillbilly" Tate and Howard "Snigger" Patterson. Like him, Hillbilly also enlisted in secret from his family of cotton plantation owners in Virginia. At first impression, Hillbilly's quiet detachment seemed like lack of interest to their company, but as Snigger's imaginative use of profanity thawed the ice, they soon realized that Hillbilly's cold front was only a defense for the unknown. The southerner's forced stone face and tight locked lips soon turned into a full carefree and upward smile. The four quickly got along and decided to explore.

At the edge of the airstrip were a number of camouflaged canvas aerodomes. They sighted four Camels parked with their wings attached inside the hangars. They dared to look closer and admired a brutal looking aircraft with patched up bullet holes on its fuselage. They thought it was beautiful. All tail fins of the Camels were painted with vertical red, white and blue with serial numbers indicating its unit and nationality. They also noted a couple of machine gun pits around the vicinity. Halfway on route to have a chit chat with the gunners of the nests, they heard the familiar call for men's meal. The men broke into a sprint towards the mess hall and caught a glimpse of the officer's housing along the way.

The four arrived at a conclusion that the officers had the best huts as usual, plus the services of batmen[7]; but Stear and his buddies didn't think much of the rank distinction. They have other pressing matters to concern themselves about.

"I can't believe they sent us here without our own planes." Flats whispered as they lined up for their rations at the mess hall.

Stear's peripheral vision caught the odd presence of salty looking airmen eyeing them with equal curiosity. "What do you think those RAF[8] pilots are here for? I bet they're going to lend us a few and let our birds fly in them."

"Yeah, but what about us buddy? You think those Tommies would let us tinker on their toys?" Snigger argued. "No way, I don't think so."

"They can't just let us sit here and do nothing now can they?" Stear said.

"Perhaps not, but sure I hope they'd let us off the hook soon. I've been dreaming for the day I could finally spend my poker wins. Urrah! Red light district, Mikey's coming for ya!"

Stear shook his head in reply. Here he was, all keyed up to make the best first impression and all Flats could think about is French girls.

As expected, the brass hats pulled their heads together in order to keep the Force operational. Their day wing unit was alternately attached to the Allied pool of pilots flying with the 217 and 218 Squadron, 5th Group, RAF for training and actual war service.

Stear's first assignment was to assist a French Canadian, RAF pilot, Lieutenant Dominique Dubois. The young chase pilot climbed on his waiting Camel, his mission was to escort the Day Wing Handley Page[9] aircrafts as they dropped their bombs over Hun land. Stear's heart was pumping blood so hard he could hear his own pulse despite the other planes taxiing the airfield. He prayed he would do a good job and propel his first pilot off without any glitch.

When Lt. Dubois looked settled enough, his training kicked off. He called out. "Switch off, petrol on." and the other repeated the same words and began his own safety checklist. Stear listened intently for sound of the engine as it turned backwards to suck in gas.

"Contact!" he shouted to the pilot. Lt. Dubois switched on and answered. "Contact."

The engine started at the first swing. The pilot revved up with a roar, checked his instruments, throttled down and waved his hand. Stear and Flats pulled off the wedges from wheels of the undercarriage and ran around to the rear of the aircraft and held the rear struts in order to help him turn.

The machine vibrated from pent up energy, and within seconds, it zoomed away to join the formation.

**_If you would like to read more of this story, please leave a review. Thank you!_**

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[1] The Curtiss "Jenny"was America's most famous World War 1 airplane; developed by combining the best features of Curtiss J and N models. The model J made in 1914 flew reconnaissance against Pancho Villa's Mexican revolutionaries. A 1915 version, the JN-3, was used in 1916 during Pershing's Punitive Expedition into Mexico. Its poor performance, however, made it unsuited for field operations. The JN-3 was modified in 1916 to improve its performance. The redesigned JN-4, was affectionately nicknamed the "Jenny". – Aviation Central

[2] USS DeKalb, a 14, 180-ton (displacement) troop transport, was built at Stettin, Germany, in 1904 as the passenger liner Prince Eitel Friedrich. She was a German Navy Auxiliary cruiser during the first seven months of World War 1, and then was interned in the United States. Seized when the US entered the conflict in 1917, she was turned over to the Navy, converted to a troopship at the Philadelphia Navy Yard and renamed DeKalb. – History of the Navy

[3] The Early Years :1912-1941 – History of Marine Corps

[4] Excerpt from The Southwest Louisiana Historical Association : Gerstner Field

[5] Excerpt from First Marine Aviation Force in France –History of Marine Corps Aviation

[6] The organization structure for the Marine Aviation Force are as follows:

SQUADRON: the basic tactical and administrative unit of USMC Aviation, and is the organization equivalent of a battalion. In the beginning, the Marine flying squadrons were identified by letters but later on changed to one digit numbers in order to comply to the already established system of the RAF . The squadrons are sometimes further divided into sections such as the Administrative, Technical or Life Support Section. Traditionally, the lead aircraft belongs to the commanding officer. - Wikipedia

GROUPS: The next higher level in the Marine Aviation is the Group, aviation equivalent of a regiment. The most ambitious operational project undertaken by Naval Aviation during WW1 had its objective the destruction of the submarine bases at Ostend, Zeebrugge, and Bruges by aerial bombing. These bases along the Belgian coast were to be subjected to continuous day and night bombing by Marine and Navy squadrons, collectively known as the Northern Bombing Group, based in the Calais-Dunkirk area.- The Northern Bombing Group by Izetta Winter Robb

WINGS: The highest level of Marine aviation is the Marine Aircraft Wing, equivalent of a division. The Northern Bombing Group operated with one day and one night wing consisting of four squadrons each. Squadrons of the Day Wing were subdivided into three flights, of six planes each, under flight commanders; while those of the night wing were subdivided into two flights of five planes each, also under flight commanders. –source same as the above

[7]. A batman (or a batwoman) is a soldier or an airman assigned to a commissioned officer as a personal servant. Before the advent of motorized transport, an officer's batman was also in charge of the officer's bathorse that carried the packsaddle with his officer's kit during the campaign.

[8] The Royal Air Force (RAF) is the aerial warfare service branch of the British Armed Forces. Formed on 1 April 1918, it is the oldest independent air force in the world. - Wikipedia

[9] Frederick Handley Page (later known as Sir Frederick) founded the first British public company to build aircraft. During WW1, Handley Page produced a series of heavy bombers for the Royal Navy to bomb German Zeppelin yards, with the ultimate intent of bombing Berlin is revenge for the Zeppelin attacks on London. Handley Page had been asked by the Admiralty to produce a "bloody paralyzer of an aeroplane". These aircrafts included the 0/100 of 1915, the 0/400 of 1918 and the four engined V/1500 with the range to reach Berlin. The V/1500 only reached operational service as the war ended in 1918.


	5. Chapter 5

**_A/N Thank you so much to Paolau2 for beta reading this chapter, _****_muchisimas gracias amiga! _**

**_Thank you so much for the awesome people in Candy's Love for your support, especially to Gosiekin, for letting me pick on her brain. Again, thank you to Ms. Puddle, Enaka, Liliana, Keila and Paolau2 for leaving reviews._**

CHAPTER 5

THE CLAMOR OF DISTANT artillery bombardment pierced through the tilted farmlands surrounding the peaceful hamlet of La Fresne. Situated in between the Channel Ports of Calais and Dunkirk, north of France, the La Fresne Aerodrome was in close flight range to the Flanders coast.

The 'Race to the Sea' which began with mobile warfare in 1914, had reached its finish line at the northern coast of West Belgium, ensuing the deadlock of trench warfare. Thereafter, the French ports' importance as a gateway for supplying the Allied Forces resulted in a number of fierce battles; among them was the bloodbath of Flanders: Passchendaele. As part of the series of Ludendorff's Spring Offensive[1], waves of German soldiers from the Eastern Front were amassed to support four major attacks. The initiative was designed to churn out a breakthrough along the Allied lines just before the surge of fresh Americans reach its full fighting force.

When the German advances started to dwindle, the Allies began its counter offensives. By August 1918, round the clock bombardment missions were launched day and night by the NBG (Northern Bombing Group), claming men and machine by the hour. Airmen of the Day Wing squadrons would have meals and share jokes in the morning, and return minus a comrade or two by noon.

While waiting for the arrival of Italian made Caproni[2] Bombers, MAF (Marine Aviation Force) ensigns, observers and gunners flew as understudy alongside their RAF counterparts.

A FEW DAYS AFTER HIS ASSIGNMENT, Stear was summoned to the Headquarter Squadron in St. Inglevert . The order was for him to report in his immaculate khaki uniform. Cat calls hurled at him as he walked the halls of cluttered men in their grease stained utility drabs.

"Out to slay some dragons Patty?" Snigger hollered.

"Apparently not, the town council has convened and summoned me for the annual human sacrifice." Stear retorted.

"Wait, don't they need virgins for that?" Snigger shouted for all camp to hear as Stear hurried past with a you-will-die expression on his face.

He hopped on the waiting motorcar feeling nervous, wondering what on earth he was being called in for. The traffic became heavier as they came across marching troops on the move to a tent camp set up on a hill surrounded by pine woods. In his eyes, the swarm of BEF (British Expeditionary Force) soldiers looked like forlorn cattle. The infantry men's apparel were muddy to the point of decay, and their cold meat tickets[3] clanged like cowbells as they moved along the dirt paths. The officers on horseback looked like shepherds directing the mass coming home from grazing in no man's land. He pitied the men, whose faces he did not know, and felt guilty on how clean and comfortable he looked.

The dirt roads eventually lead to a large chateau. The beautiful estate reminded him of the ChicagoMansion, the only permanent home he ever knew. Smiling faces of Hanna, Mr. Whitman and the rest of the household would be lined up neatly, welcoming his arrival, and his great aunt Elroy, his parents, with Archie, and spicy Candy standing in front, ready to pounce on him as he hopped off the vehicle.

"Corporal," said the driver in leather putty, "Lt. Sparks is expecting you on 0100[4] sharp."

Reality disrupted his mind from protecting itself. He was ushered to a room and frostily greeted by a deeply tanned, fair haired, first Lieutenant. Judging by his looks and composure, Stear concluded that the officer was a combat veteran from one of the PacificIsland colonies. "Name?" the Lieutenant said without looking up from the files sprawled on his desk.

"Cornwell, Alistair A., Corporal, NBG, Squadron C reporting for duty, sir!"

"As you were." Lt. Sparks raised his piercing gray eyes and took one good long look at him. "Squadrons are now designated with numerical appellation. You will refer to your unit as the 9th Squadron, understood?"

"Yes sir."

Stear stood in sharp attention as the extremely handsome officer studied his service record.

"Cornwell Alistair, enlisted at Parris Island, qualified sharpshooter, T.W. technical duty, appointed Corporal. Tell me more about your education, Marine." Lt. Sparks clasped his hands and gave him his full analytical attention.

As Stear told him in detail about his background, the Lieutenant's mood changed to a friendlier one. Perhaps he shared a connection between their upbringings, or maybe the officer found something amusing about the unlikely bespectacled young Marine, nevertheless, he seemed as if he liked what he was hearing.

"From what I gather, you sounded more like a good candidate for OfficersSchool. Did your folks ever talk you into that?"

"Yes sir. But I was afraid I would miss the fight." Stear answered without hesitation.

Lt. Sparks nodded knowingly. "I'm promoting you to Staff Sergeant. We need more assembly men at Base B for the incoming shipment of Capronis. You, on the other hand, will take over Sgt. Winter's place. Here's your order." Lt. Sparks rose from his seat, handed him his papers and then pinned a blue aviator insignia on the lapel of his collar. "I'm counting on you, get it done."

"Thank you sir." Stear snapped in attention and saluted sharply.

On his way back to the aerodrome, he read the details of his new rank. As staff sergeant, he would work directly under the flight commander -his first launched pilot- Lt. Dominique Dubois. He breathed a sigh of relief, his intuition tells him that he and the young Lieutenant would get along very well and the rest of his duties would fall in its place.

"NOW HEAR THIS! HEAR THIS!" Flats raised his tin cup of punched coffee. "Our very own four-eyed, silver spoon, unadulterated, cherry boy has been promoted; three cheers for Sgt. Patricia, hip hip!" "Urrah!" "Hip hip!" "Urrah" "Hip, hip!" "Urrah!"

"Come on you guys, don't call me that."

"Sgt. Patty then?" Flats begged.

"No, Private Flatulence, it's enough these Tommies[5] think us Yanks don't have what it takes to fight, and here you are bashing on your NCO, branding him with a female moniker. Bad for the command's rep, so can it!" Stear reprimanded sternly.

"Yes mother." Flats piped down putting out a guilty face of a scolded puppy.

As their small crew of Flight C celebrated his advancement, mail call was announced in the mess hall. When his name was called, two thick bundles of letters were thrust onto his hands.

His buddies whooped and chanted, "Patty, Patty, Patty!"

Stear shakes his head fondly, and got on his feet. "Enjoy your supper gentlemen; I've got to get back to work."

BACK IN HIS BUNK, Stear sorted out through his mail. Apart from letters from his kin and close friends dating at least a month back, a majority of the letters were from his English sweetheart Patricia O'Brien. He tore through the latest one, written a week before. He read the letter, sensing the frantic panic in her script, begging him for information on his status. He sniffed the feminine stationary and marveled- at the moment he found himself in pure detached bliss.

He began writing his reply:

_Dear Patty,_

_I've just received your letters along with the others. I'm glad to hear that you are in good health and so is your Nan, and as for me, I have lost some weight on account of this heat, other than that, I am pleased to report to you that I am in perfect health._

_I apologize for the alarm I have caused you. You see, just before we shipped out, in response to rumors of Bosche spies in America, our orders were changed from censured correspondence to a total ban. Even the troops did not know exactly when our deployment was until the last minute, so you could also imagine the strain on us, packing and unpacking, checking and re-checking our equipments until then._

_We boarded a large ship with camouflaged cannons and were sent to quarter below decks. Picture the Mauretania disemboweled; almost all the floors below were stripped of walls and packed with layers of hanging cots from port to starboard hulls. Good thing I am not prone to sea sickness, when those suspended cradles start to sway, sleep would be the last thing on your mind._

_We also had regular boat drills, and for the life of me, I couldn't understand, how could they fit three thousand men- loaded with equipment- on deck all at once, without the fear of the wooden top levels from collapsing. The Skipper must have felt the same, because after three more general boat drills, the drills were broken down in smaller units._

_Another thing I learned while I was at sea was that, I can cook. When our crew had its rotation for mess duty, I got the job of being the Sous Chef of sort, and whatever concoction I mixed seemed to be a hit! Never once on our duty, did we hear a Marine grumbling about the food. Maybe next time, I can cook for you and let you be the judge._

_It's been weeks now since we arrived in France, and I've just been promoted to Sergeant a few hours before. Patty, I may have the chance to earn my wings after all! By the way promotions are hurried around here, who knows, maybe I'll be one of the flyboys next time I send you a letter._

_With love and affection,_

_Sgt. Alistair Cornwell_

Before he knew it, he had told everything he had in him to Patty and had no energy left to write to the others. He washed and changed to his fresh skivvies. That night, sleep has evaded him, and he ached for something he doesn't know what.

**_I have edited the bottom part of Chapter 4 and added a few footnotes. Please check it out if you fancy. If you'd like to hear more of this story, please let me know by leaving a review. Thanks!  
_**

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[1] The 1918 Spring Offensive or Kaiserschlacht (Kaiser's Battle) also known as the Ludendorff Offensive, was a series of German attacks along the Western Front during WW1. Beginning on 21 March 1918, it marked the deepest advances by either side since 1914. The Germans have realized that their only remaining chance of victory was to defeat the Allies before the overwhelming human and material resources of the United States could be deployed. They also had temporary advantage in numbers afforded by the nearly 50 Divisions freed by the Russian surrender in the Eastern Front. (Treaty of Brest-Litovsk) - Wikipedia

[2] The Caproni Ca.3 was an Italian heavy bomber of WW1 and the post-war-era. It was the definitive version of the series of aircraft that began with the Caproni Ca.1 in 1914.

[3] Cold Meat Ticket – Identity disc. Soldiers were issued two identity discs. In the event of death, one disc was taken from the body (the cold meat) and one remained. – WW1 History: Frontline Slang

[4] 0100 (Zero One Hundred) Military time for one o'clock PM.

[5] A Tommy is a British soldier derived from Tommy Atkins, which, much like John Doe in the US, was a name on sample forms to represent a typical British army private soldier. –Frontline Slang


	6. Chapter 6

**_A/N Massive thanks to Gosiekin for her ideas, grammar check and much needed encouragement for this chapter. _**

**_Thank you Paolau2, Keila, Lorena and Liliana; also to Puddle, Enaka and Lezti for staying with me and for leaving reviews._**

**_ It's not New Years material, but I hope you'll enjoy it :)_**

CHAPTER 6

"BOMBS! BOMBS! BOMBS!"

Everyone froze in an instant. In a fraction of a second, the klaxon wailed the cry for a bombing attack, and then came the sound of guns sending flak. His first tangible encounter with the war came in the form of airborne whizz bangs spewing fire, shrapnel and debris concerted with loud thunderclaps, shattering the glass windows at the south end of their barracks. The men hit the deck and searched for cover as buzzing engines of low flying Fokker[1] enemy planes zoomed past their once quiet sector.

Lt. Dubois, already in his flight garb busted through the door and barked at them in disbelief. "What in the bloody hell are you doing in here holding your cocks in your hands? Get out there and man your stations!"

Stear's knee wobbled as he crawled up and echoed the order. "You heard the Lieutenant! Let's go!"

On the way out he grabbed his leather jacket and lugged his canvas bag hanging from the pegs near the busted door. On a distance they saw two burning Handley Pages successfully hit by German bombs. Their machine guns and anti aircraft artillery managed to keep the Fokker triplanes away, just in time for the airmen to save the remaining machines and take flight.

"Here we go." Stear mumbled nervously as he hopped on the rear gunner's cockpit. His hands were shaking as he donned the rest of his gear; and by the time he cocked the rear Lewis machine gun, they were already in the air. With nowhere to run, he knew, that whatever happened, he would be bound to fight.

His heart was in his throat as his pilot maneuvered in the gray afternoon sky. Their best chance of survival was safety in numbers. If they were to find the mainstream of Allied aircrafts, their heavy bomber would be better protected by interlacing fields of fire. He strained his ears for the sound of the enemy engines as well as their own but heard none. They were completely alone in the vast open sky.

His mitten covered hands clung dreadfully on the spade handles as he swiveled the heavy weapon from left to right, testing the arc along the turret. And then he started to pray - trusting his life half to the pilot's skill and the other half to God.

Moving two thousand feet in the air facing the rear was disorienting. It was like sitting backwards in a deranged train, moving not only forward but also in every other direction -except to the rear-without a moment's notice. He started to feel nauseated.

"Nobody drops a daisy cutter[2] in my backyard and gets away with it!" Lt. Dubois chirped excitedly as he spotted two of the Iron Cross[3]painted culprits. He moved to their blind side and opened fire but the enemy fighter planes were faster and more agile for their big bomber HP to chase. The Fokkers banked and climbed, leaving their front tracer bullets showering the empty clouds.

"Watch your sector Sergeant! Those Fuckers are famed from humping in the beeehind." the pilot yelled.

Stear's nerves were strung so tight, he couldn't get himself to answer. Although rendered speechless, he was self-assured that his mind was clear and up to function. The enemy seemed to have vanished, but his sixth sense told him that danger still loomed very close- and he was right.

One Fokker pounced below their Handley Page and riddled their wooden undercarriage with bullets, missing his foot and gas tank only in inches chance. It was a fact, that it takes only one bullet to set the gas tank in fire and with it, the men and machine to their fiery graves. At that moment, Stear made up his mind and shouted, "It's going to be either him or us!"

"Pour it on Cornwell! Let him have it!" Lt. Dubois cheered him on.

As their bulky aeroplane dove at high speed, Stear pulled the trigger and fanned their rear. The drum magazine rattled and popped rhythmically, spitting fire at long bursts. Like many of the new observers, he had only practiced firing the turret machine gun a few times and only once in the air. Providential luck must have been on their side, as black smoke emerged from their lone hunter.

"Lieutenant, I got one!"

"Good on you Yank! Stay toasty, there's another one lurking around!"

The enemy articulated its hate with Luftstreitkrafte (Imperial German Air Service) LMG 08 Spandau bullets zipping overhead. "Dear lord, there's two of them!" Horrified, Stear fought the urge to empty his bladder as the menacing fighter Fokker triplanes moved in for the kill.

Just in the nick of time, fighter Camel escorts based on their aerodrome, spotted their location and leapt to their rescue. The Fokkers broke formation. The enemy were outnumbered three to one. Lt. Dubois shot a glance on his canvas wings. Seeing the daunting holes and flapping tears, he decided to leave the battle for the Allied chase fighters to finish and steered his punctured bird for base.

THEY WERE GREETED BY WAVING MARINES as they touched down on the shell cratered runway of Field E. The landing team, closely followed by the field ambulance, promptly received them and assessed for damages and casualties.

"Look at him boys," Lt. Dubois, clapped Stear's leather padded shoulders as they dismounted the bullet riddled aircraft. "He's a man now, just like me."

Lt. Dubois, the RAF chase pilot turned Day Bomber commander, was a light haired man of imposing size around his mid-twenties. Well respected by his peers for his skill and flying hours, he was one of the few survivors of 1917's Bloody April[4] By his 24th birthday, he held the title of Ace[5] and was decorated with the coveted Victoria Cross[6]. Compared to the average age of his American comrades in their late teens and early twenties, he was the most senior and experienced in the crowd.

"Did you get one, Sarge?" a Marine asked. "How many did you down Sarge?" asked another.

Stear proudly held up one finger, his facial muscles strained as he tried to smile. Lt. Dubois on the other hand, gave him a nod and started his way towards officer's country. It was protocol for officers not to fraternize with their men, but another reason for combat veterans to sport aloofness, was that they did not want to bond with another person who would probably expire in a matter of days or weeks, as they knew they themselves would.

The ground boys of Flight C came running towards the rear gunner's direction. Flats, Snigger and Hillbilly charged Stear and tackled him like excited dogs making happy noises as they welcomed back a member of their pack. As far as rank and combat experience was concerned, Stear had just become their pack's alpha dog.

"You devil dodger! How did you manage to come back in one piece?" Hillbilly grabbed his leather cap then ruffled his dark hair.

"How does it feel, Sarge? How does it feel to pop your cherry?" Snigger has that streak of obnoxiousness in him that is easily forgiven by his contagious chuckles.

"Not funny Snigger." Stear's face suddenly went serious. "Things might have gone differently and some of us might have been killed."

"Those Jastaphonies definition for strategic bombing defies this American's logic." Flats pointed to his chest as he delivered his own notion of the event. "Blow the machines and we'll replace them easily. Blow up the men, however, it would take nine months to conceive and another nineteen or twenty more years or so, in order to rear a nut cracking, Fritz chasing, cold blooded; Frontschwein predator."

"Right on target you are, Flats." Stear agreed. "Let's just hope the Hun higher-ups won't have the same epiphany, otherwise, we'll be sleeping underground along with the rats. Now, let's take a look at what damages our home away from home has sustained."

Stear's lower 'official tone' of voice signaled the end of their casual chat. They were back to business. Flats, being second in command after Stear, anticipated his superior's need and conveyed his report. "Word was that, apart from the smoldering heap of HP bombers, Squadron 9 sustained zero casualties. The enlisted barracks took a hit in the windows but no serious damage on the infrastructure. And oh, Squadron Commander Philips wants you and the Lieutenant on his billet for debriefing, if, you made it back that is."

THEY RECEIVED THEIR FIRST SALARIES in Francs. As a token of appreciation for his parent's hard work on raising him, Stear had sent his first pay in full to his folks while he was in the States. He insisted that he did not have the need for any cash while he was at base, however, his parents in their inestimable wisdom, returned his following checks knowing that he would need them as soon as he shipped abroad.

The NBG squadrons had a mission of their own- which was to bomb submarine bases along the Belgian coast. In order to get there, airmen must cross the Northern tip of the Hindenburg Line and fly behind Hun land. As a result, their company was considered to be Front Line Battle Zone personnel and with it, came grants for faster rotation for rest and recovery.

At the fourth year of the war, the Allies had established a system to keep their troop's combat effectiveness. Statistics had shown that the longer the time soldiers spend at the battle front, the more prone their unit will be to combat fatigue. These exhausted soldiers would be useless in the fight and cause danger to themselves and their comrades. In order to prevent this, battle front units were rotated to the rear in relative safety, where they could relax their exhausted bodies and regain composure from the devastation they had witnessed. Such short breaks and a little touch of kindness mattered greatly in the lives of war weary men.

After twelve days of ground and air duty, it was finally his unit's rotation for leave. The pack voted unanimously to spend their short furlough in Paris. They visited the commander's adjutant's office and found out, much to their delight, that their applications have been approved. They signed their passes and received prints in the style of Uncle Sam's finger pointing at them as if giving a sermon. The leaflet copied from the Lord Kitchener's 1914 words of wisdom, warned the soldiers: "to be constantly on your guard against any excesses. In this new experience, you will find temptations in both wine and women. You must entirely resist both."

The pack scurried away and burst through the door laughing.

They hitched a truck ride from La Fresne at the crack of dawn, and then commuted towards the metropolis via supply train at Amien. Hundreds of tanks littered the streets, some intact but most were smashed from the recent Allied Offensive. Sporadic small arms fire and whizzbangs from British and German salvos rattled the wooden train compartments. Already accustomed to such background clamor, the men found the journey short and uneventful. Their pack reached the city proper by noon.

The young Americans were first impressed by the international assembly of military uniforms and insignia. Their interest for symbolism burned as they hunted for spread wings of airmen and unbridled dragons for tankmen. The were surprised to see Frenchmen walking in the boulevards wearing blazing red trousers and caps, in contrast to the faded blue uniforms they wore in the Front, and the British Armed Forces were easily distinguished by their mud colored khaki ensembles.

The individual seemed to have drowned under the homogeneous colors, but the human spirit would not be denied. The nationality of the wearer within aired its unique posture and origins like a waving flag. The British Emperialists strode along; stiff and meticulously dressed. New Zealanders exhibited almost the same profile as the sturdy Australian larkinists. Canadian privates strolled carefree, with creases on their trousers and off centered caps. Italians and Portuguese were few in numbers but walked in lean and confident pace. Belgians, with a tassels swaying on their caps, were found everywhere and hard to sort. And at last, the clean and healthy Americans, who seemed to be the most self-conscious of them all.

They jostled and hustled to find seats at the outdoor cafes lined up on _Avenue des Champs-Elysees_. The rush hour of luncheon sent aroma of good food, and the sounds of clattering dishes made their empty stomachs growl. The menu was surprisingly long, boasting with bounty, as if war did not exist just a few kilometers away. When the food finally made it to their table, they were amazed by the presentation, even the simple scrambled egg exuded style. The men marveled at the crusty deliciousness of war-bread, of which they haven't tasted since the rationing of wheat in America.

Twilight crept quickly and their feet ached for relief.

_"Bonsoir, monsieur Officiers." _Four giggling colorful females closed in on them, their attire a sharp contrast to the plain and dark clothes worn by the French women they have seen so far.

"Well, hello ladies." Snigger was already besotted. "Par lay voo zon glay?"

"_Pardon?"_ The dark eyed woman asked sweetly and batted her long eyelashes.

_"Est-ce que vous parlez anglais_?" Stear clarified.

"_Oui monsieur! We speak English, you look tired, we know a place. Good music and champagne come! Come!"_

Each woman picked her choice and flitted close enough to inspire confidence for the young lads. The ladies were good looking, jovial and fashionably dressed; leaving no room for insight. Sweet perfume wafted in the air like a delightful promise; and the more adventurous Flats was found already holding hands with his pair.

The entrance to the stone walled establishment was lit with a dim red lamp with a big iron cast number "1" on it. They have heard about such places, but were never faced with the reality of it. The door was open and welcoming like a hotel, but instead of a male concierge, a respectable looking wrinkled old lady on a formal night gown greeted the new comers.

"_Américains! Welcome to Madame Pong's Parlor, we have the best selection of champagne in all of Paris, the access of which you shall have to pay only two francs each,"_ Her perfect English sounded rehearsed, well practiced and insincere. She held out her gloved hand palms up awaiting their donations. "_S'il vous plait."_

"_Allons-y, let's go!_" Flat's partner tugged.

"I don't know if this is a good idea." Stear croaked.

The others paid no heed to their superior. When it came to the call of curiosity, they say that the spirit might be willing, but the flesh is always weak.

**_If you'd like to read more of this story, please leave a review. Thank you!_**

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[1] The Fokker Dr.I Dreidecker (triplane) was a WW1 fighter aircraft built by Fokker- Flugzeugwerke. The Dr.I saw widespread service in the spring of 1918. It became renowned as the aircraft in which Manfred von Richthofen gained his last 19 victories; and in which he was killed on 21 April 1918.

[2]. Daisy Cutter is a shell with an impact fuse so it would explode at ground level. – Front Line Slang

[3] The Iron Cross (Eisemes Kreuz) is a cross symbol typically in black with a white or silver outline. It originated after 1219, when the Kingdom of Jerusalem granted the Teutonic Order the right to combine the Teutonic Black Cross placed above the silver Cross of Jerusalem. –Wikipedia

The German Iron Cross (medal) in its various grades was awarded to all military ranks o to recognize officers and men for acts of bravery, heroism and leadership. It was first introduced on 10 March 1813 by King Friedrich Willhelm III of Prussia during the Napoleonic Wars.

The Iron Cross still rates as Germany's most famous military insignia, but its role has been reduced to that of black and white emblem of the aircraft, tanks, and warships of the post-war armed forces. It was dropped as a medal in 1945.

[4] During April 1917, the British lost 245 aircraft, 211 aircrew killed or missing and 108 as prisoners of war. The German Air Services lost 66 aircrafts from all causes. As a comparison, in the 5 months of 1916's Battle of the Somme, the RFC had suffered 576 casualties. Under Richthofen's leadership, Jasta 11 scored 89 victories during April, over a third of British losses.

The month of April marked the low point for the Royal Flying Corps. However, despite the losses inflicted on the British, the German Air Service failed to stop the Royal Fying Corps from carrying out its prime objectives. The RFC continued to support the army throughout the Arras Offensive with up-to-date aerial photographs, reconnaissance information and harassing bomb raids. In spite of their ascendancy, the German Air Service did not act aggressively. Acting on order from high command, the German squadrons continued to be used defensively. Most of their missions were flying interception patrols behind their own lines. Thus the Jastas established "air superiority" but did not achieve "air supremacy".- WWI Aviation

[5]An Ace is a fighter pilot who has shot down five or more enemy aircraft. The rules for validating an enemy "kill' varied between countries, some required a witness, while others were not as strict and 'kills' could be shared. - Wikipedia

[6] The Victoria Cross (VC) is the highest military decoration awarded for valor "in the face of the enemy" to members of the armed forces of various Commonwealth countries and previous British Empire territories. - Wikipedia


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